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<title>Of Blood and of Gold by great-pan-is-dead (technicolour_space_cadets)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670348">Of Blood and of Gold</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolour_space_cadets/pseuds/great-pan-is-dead'>great-pan-is-dead (technicolour_space_cadets)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Blood and Injury, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:47:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670348</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolour_space_cadets/pseuds/great-pan-is-dead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The reality of Basil's murder dawns on Dorian, and on his hands.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dorian Gray &amp; Basil Hallward</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Of Blood and of Gold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written August 2017.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It took him so long to realise that it was no ichor that ran through his veins, but blood; blood as red as his own or any other man’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he saw, that must have been what he really wanted in the end. Not a god, but a man. A man with just as great of a capacity to die and live as he did. A man who bled, and bled red. By the time he realised it, he already bled, red, red, on that man’s hands, but he never saw. Red, in his hair: that was the ichor, the light beads with the guilt that made them heavy, and blood is ever so red; so red, in fact, that it stays, always wanting to be known, red, red, red, it always wanted to tell a man’s tales when he could no longer. He’s dead, it sang, blood that was in that man’s heart, and was in his own. It was too late to see it was gold when it was on Dorian’s hands. Too late, when the brave crown of his skull was ruined, and they traced a careful line down the face. Too late, when he painted his lips with their own gold and left, but not before he had tried so hard to rid himself of the red.</span>
</p>
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